


Pain

by thoughtsappear



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsappear/pseuds/thoughtsappear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron knows pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain

Agron knows pain.

It is part of the life of a gladiator. Cuts and bruises constantly being created, in all the various stages of repair. Wounds that never fully close. Aches and pains before bed that only atrophy overnight into a stiffness and a tenderness to the body that never really fades. Old injuries that lie in wait, until a knee to the ribs, or a sword to the side bring them screaming back to cause the same agony as before. 

There isn’t a gladiator alive that has a body honed for battle but doesn’t also have a body that has been broken and abused.

Agron learns this early. He learns how to cope with the pain, how to handle the headaches from the heat and the lack of water, how to compensate for a swollen ankle or how to correct a disjointed shoulder or a knee, how to look for the signs of injury in others, how to use them against his opponent, how to use the unspoken pains to cause the most damage.

Because for Agron, only a few things ever really take the pain off his mind. He can see the pain in others because he sees it so much in himself.

The first thing that brings him relief from his constant agony from the fight, is the fight itself. The planning for battle, the strategy, the excitement, the anticipation all brings with it a euphoria to his tired bones and aching limbs. Nothing does more for his aches than shoving a sword through a Roman chest or slicing open an enemy’s belly. In those moments Agron is bigger than his body, better than his wounds will ever allow him to be, and the relief he feels is greater than any poultice or herb the medicus could ever give him.

For those precious moments, he feels nothing from his body but the power and the strength within in it. He doesn’t feel his body trying to punish him for all the abuse he puts it through.

He feels whole. He feels new. He feels painless.

The other thing that helps Agron forget the bruises and cuts, that soothes the ever present ache within, is not a thing at all.

It is Nasir.

Nasir makes the pain fade. Nasir quiets his mind, focuses his thoughts. Nasir is a balm for his body when his body can’t take much more. Nasir is a presence, a comfort, a calm respite in a sea of madness. Nasir lets him breathe and Agron breathes easier.

Nasir and fighting are all he needs.

Until the Romans in their clever cruelty find a way with two sharp spikes to rob him of both.

He can’t hold a sword. He can barely touch Nasir. He can’t cup his hands to drink water.

The pain in his hands is like nothing he has ever experienced and the other aches and pains within his tired body suddenly are too much to bear. It is all he can feel. He doesn’t even have the promise of revenge to pull him through.

One morning he wakes, in more pain than when he laid to rest and instead of rising from his bedroll he simply rolls to his back, feeling his old abused body complain the whole time. He lays there, staring at the ceiling of his tent, muttering to himself.

Nasir comes to collect him, not expecting to have to coax him out of bed, but prepared to do so. Agron smiles weakly at the sight of his love, who is still young and beautiful and somehow smells better than anyone else in camp, which is quite a feat considering none of them have bathed in some time. Nasir- who tastes like summer, whose skin against Agron’s makes him feel almost as giddy as a blow to the head. Agron looks at the man he would fight Jupiter for, and he feels nothing but pain.

Agron closes his eyes and repeats the three words that say everything he cannot.

“Fuck the gods.”

Nasir crawls onto the bedroll with him, a stale chunk of bread in his hands. Agron already knows it is both of their shares, but the portion is still smaller than his own share was just days ago. Nasir intends that Agron eat it all. Agron knows this, and his traitorous stomach growls. Nasir busies himself, checking Agron’s bandages, tending to his wounds. He brushes a kiss upon his lover’s lips and Agron’s hands long to hold him, which is an ache deeper than anything caused by a Roman’s spike.

“I do not wish to leave this tent,” he tells Nasir, hands at his sides. “I cannot bring myself to do it.”

Nasir does not argue, he does not say a word. Instead he remains at Agron’s side, one hand light on Agron’s naked hip. Nasir’s touch is a constant, and it usually serves to soothe. But now it only reminds Agron of how his own hands feel nothing but agony whenever he tries to do something as simple as stroke through Nasir’s long hair.

“I am a gladiator that cannot hold a sword,” he continues. Nasir is already shaking his head but Agron turns away from him in defiance. He does not want Nasir’s pity. “What am I good for?”

Nasir does not respond, instead he begins to move to lie beside Agron. He gently maneuvers Agron’s tired body behind himself, mindful of the large wounds upon his chest and back, he lifts Agron’s arms around his waist and Agron’s damaged hands loosely clasp each other. Agron curls his aching body against Nasir’s and tries to breathe, smelling the wonderful Nasir smell, and he fights the pain in his limbs to hold him close.

“Even when you cannot hold a sword, you can hold me,” Nasir says. “You hold my heart.”

Agron knows then that he will find a way to bear this pain.


End file.
